Cross the Channel
by Cee-face
Summary: If his ally was going to surrender, then at the very least, England didn't want more people dying in the process. -WW2, setting up the Dunkirk Evacuation. England and France.-


It was late into the night and he was just short of halfway through a cup of lukewarm tea; it was definitely not the most pleasant of ways to be trudging through paperwork and intricate diagrams detailing plans of attack. He wanted to sleep -- he _needed_ to, his military was weak enough -- but going too long without completing this work could be eight different kinds of fatal. He was willing to lose a little bit of sleep for effort towards stopping further expansion of the Third Reich.

England could only imagine what a sight he must have been; a pale-faced, baggy-eyed, scruffy-haired, bushy-browed fatigued echo of a gentleman sipping at cold tea and squinting at papers not a foot from his face. Idly, he wondered what his people thought of him right now -- during times of war, between weariness, civilian panic, and dissenting opinions, he found it harder to synch up with his citizens.

He needed to finish this work quickly, he realized. His thoughts were beginning to wander.

The former Empire had not lifted the teacup two centimeters off of its saucer when the shrill ringing of the telephone at the corner of his desk rattled through the air and the tip of his pen cracked off in the alarmed pressure suddenly applied to it.

"Brilliant," he rasped in a voice neglected from isolation. He swallowed once before answering, if only to stop that head-drilling noise. "Arthur Kirkland speaking."

"Ah, _Angleterre._"

He had half a mind to hang up right then, before he remembered that he and the frog were allies this time around. "Being that you are, in fact, an hour ahead of me, I'm sure you're aware of how late it is," grated England preceding a sigh. "I hope this is important, France."

"Then I am glad to realize your hopes, _Angleterre,_ as this is quite important," responded the voice on the other end of the line. "You see, I, ah…I am in need of a place to stay, and also of the means to get there."

The Briton caught his hand in mid-air when he realized he was once again about to hang up on France. He brought the phone back to the side of his face before speaking again. "If you're drunk, you can stay and rot out there," threatened England. "There is no bloody way I'm helping you a--"

"_Non_, that is not it at all," France neatly cut him off, but didn't seem as eager to elaborate.

A moment of silence passed before England snapped, "_What,_ pray tell, is the matter, then? The longer you take to tell me, the less--"

"Germany is here, _mon ami._"

England's breath caught in his throat. "…what?"

"I cannot take much more, _mon cheri._ Your men are at stake here, as well." The other nation's hesitation to continue was palpable. "…I am nearing surrender. My own land will not be safe."

Understanding grudgingly dawned on the Kingdom. "…I'll rally whomever we have; I make no promises. You know of my state." Even his navy, his crown jewel, would fall to pieces if faced with the German forces.

"And of the boarding situation?" prompted the Frenchman.

Disdain tinted England's words. "You may stay here," he conceded reluctantly as he remembered to set aside his broken pen before it started to leak onto any important documents. "Set up a government in exile -- nothing you have there will be worth shite once Germany takes control," added the Briton bitterly.

"You have my gratitude, _Angleterre._" I damn well better, England reflected with a quiet scoff. "I apologize that I cannot do more on my home front." A thick pause. "…you know of the German forces, _mon ami._"

The island nation bristled at the show of guilt; "I can't believe you lasted as long as you did, you cack-handed frog." That wino wasn't allowed to feel useless; it hurt morale. A good jab would wake him up. "You're lucky I don't just leave you there."

A chuckle sounded through the fuzz of the telephone line, and England relaxed a little, knowing his provocation had worked. "Of course, _Angleterre._ Though, if you wish for me to…repay the favor, I most certainly would not object to--"

"Where are the troops?" deadpanned England to another damnable laugh.

"Dunkirk, _mon cheri._"

"Hold off Germany. …don't let any more die. We'll be there," the Kingdom promised, and hung up in the middle of France's crooning thanks.

The Englishman's gaze wandered tiredly to his tea.

This meant a _lot _more paperwork.

* * *

**A/N:** so, um, we're working on WW2 in U.S. History, and we covered the European parts of it a week or two ago, and this sort of popped into my head when i first heard about the Dunkirk evacuation. for those unfamiliar with the evacuation -- also known as Operation Dynamo -- basically Germany cut off the Allied troops in the Battle of Dunkirk, and many vital parts of the British Army, as well as the French soldiers fighting with them, were left stranded at the beaches/harbors of Dunkirk with the German troops quickly advancing on them. the majority of the Allied troops were evacuated across the English Channel by literally every vessel that could be spared, down to teeny civilian-owned boats. unfortunately, a few weeks later, a lot of the French soldiers were sent back and became POWs. after France surrendered, General Charles de Gaulle set up the Free French government in London, since Germany had occupied Northern France and had set up a puppet government in Southern France.

i'm sorry for any inaccuracies/inconsistencies in the fic or anything. i will say this apology for every Hetalia fic i will ever write, because i will never be confident enough in my historical knowledge to think i got something right, ahaha. but, that's all, i think. thank you for reading, and reviews are loved a lot! c:


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